Sunday, September 15, 2013

Morning Comforts

The frayed edges of an ancient cardigan
hot coffee in a mug that was made by hand
by the gift giver some seven or so years ago
not being able to feel that it is already sunny
and 85 degrees at not quite eight in the morning
dreams that explain nothing and reveal everything
a soft voice, thick with emotion set to rustling trees
and bird call against the backdrop of home
September is halfway over and not slowing down
making the bed before sorting and tossing
in an endless game of what goes and what stays
moving with reverence for the silence
that's pregnant with solitude and beginning
trusting the endings to come soon
I don't need to know anything more than
my readiness because the only way ever
there has been to begin is to stop
over thinking and just start

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